He hesitates by the door, then turns. “Hey, Ellie?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t look like someone who almost ran away screaming after week one.”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You look… solid. Like you landed where you’re supposed to.”
The compliment causes butterflies to erupt in my gut, and I feel like I lose all train of thought.
“Thanks,” I reply.
He nods, satisfied, and heads out. Once he’s gone, the house feels… emptier. I can’t explain it, but I almost wish he didn’t have to go.
Leaning against the counter, I stare at nothing, my heart doing that annoying, traitorous flutter again.
This version of Jamie, this playful, confident, version that’s not asking for forgiveness is far more dangerous than the broken one. This version makes me forget why I built walls inthe first place.
Chapter 11
Jamie
F
uck.
I groan loudly as Jared bends my knee in a way it shouldn’t be bent. I don’t care how many degrees someone has on their wall or how many times they say it’s ‘part of the process.’
If I wanted to be slowly tortured by elastic bands and someone leaning over me, counting reps with a smile, I would’ve signed up for it willingly. Instead, I’m here lying on my back, knee exposed, my pride in pieces.
Physical therapy should really come with a waiver that says,‘may cause rage, existential dread, and the sudden urge to throw things.’
Iknew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant process, but the pain is unimaginable. I have a pretty big pain tolerance, and this is whooping my fucking ass.
This is supposed to help you, Jamie. Keep going.
Jared hands me a foam roller the size of a small missile.
“Quads today,” he says cheerfully. “You’re tight.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
“We’re going to mobilize the joint a bit, then work on strength.”
He presses his thumbs into the muscle above my kneecap, and I swear I see white.
“Jesus fuck,” I gasp, hands gripping the edges of the table. “You trying to kill me?”
“That’s scar tissue,” he says calmly, like he’s talking about a mildly inconvenient coffee stain. “Breathe.”
“Iambreathing.”
“No, you’re talking.”
I clamp my mouth shut and stare at the ceiling, counting tiles to keep my mind on something other than the searing pain. There’s a crack shaped like Florida. I’ve memorized it. That’s how often I’m here. Jared works methodically, unapologetic. Every press sends heat shooting through my leg, sharp and deep and personal.
“This wouldn’t be necessary,” I grit out, “if my knee wasn’t a piece of shit.”
